


The Art of Reading People

by borealowl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bookstores, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, book-buying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 03:43:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21246929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borealowl/pseuds/borealowl
Summary: Aziraphale visits a used book store and experiences the sort of treatment he gives his own customers. But unlike most customers, Aziraphale has a secret weapon: a demon who loves him and will be as annoying as he has to be to help his angel buy a book.





	The Art of Reading People

It takes some time to find the bookstore. The streets of lower Manhattan aren’t nearly as confusing as London’s, but they aren’t exactly straightforward, and neither Crowley nor Aziraphale is particularly familiar with the area. After the third time they’ve circled the same block, Crowley starts complaining about the city and his angel’s inability to look up an address properly, but it’s mostly for show. He’s only tagging along for Aziraphale’s company, and to that end, it doesn’t matter whether they’re spending time together in a bookstore or walking around the block for a fourth time. It's only been a few months since he learned that Aziraphale loved him back, and Crowley's still stupidly happy just to be on this sidewalk, holding the angel's hand.

He’s still going to complain, though. 

On the fourth rotation, Crowley spots it, just a plain door with a small sign:

THE MAPLE BOOKERY

NEW, USED, AND COLLECTORS' BOOKS

“They’re not trying hard to attract customers, are they?” he says to Aziraphale.

“Can you blame them?” the angel replies.

The bookstore is dimly lit, and dusty, and there’s an odd smell that he can’t recognize. It’s not the same as the odd smell of Aziraphale’s bookstore, which Crowley has grown oddly fond of, mostly because he associates it with Aziraphale. This is a completely different species of musty, and Crowley dislikes it already.

A portly older man with a sizable mustache glares at them through his bifocals.

“Can I help you.” It’s not even a question.

“Why yes, I’m looking for your rare books section,” says Aziraphale, completely undaunted.

The man ignores him and returns to his crossword.

It doesn’t take Aziraphale long to find the rare books—the shop is just a long corridor divided into two extremely narrow aisles, and the collectors’ items are in a separate room at the end. The older man has been following them down the aisle, and once they reach the rare books, he shoves past them and stands in the doorway.

“This section is closed today.”

“The sign says 11-2 on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays,” protests Aziraphale. “It’s eleven-thirty on a Monday.”

“Our rare books guy left for an early lunch, and I can’t let you in there until he comes back.”

“Well, when might he be returning?”

The man looks at his watch. “Probably around 2:30.”

“I see,” says Aziraphale.

He resumes wandering the aisles, Crowley trailing behind. Any time they stop for too long in front of a given shelf, the man interposes himself between Aziraphale and the books, fussing with them and muttering something about reshelving. He doesn’t seem to view Crowley as a threat.

Crowley decides to change that.

He saunters over to a shelf further down the aisle and reaches for the first book he spots. “Ooh, _The Beekeeper’s Handbook_, _Fifth Edition_. I didn’t even know there was a fourth!” He pulls it off the shelf and starts flipping through it.

No one—not even other demons—really understands temptation. They think it’s all about getting people to give into their appetites, whether it’s sex, food, money, or power. Tantalizing them with their desires until they’re willing to throw away their morals, even for that brief moment.

And sure, you can do that. Crowley’s done it plenty of times, and he’s good at it. He can read a person’s desires in every line of their body and shift of their eyes. But it’s not the real game. What makes—made—Crowley so good at his job is that he understands that the best temptations don’t even have to involve desire. You just have to get people off balance, and the fastest way to do that isn’t through lust, or greed, or even fear. It’s annoyance.

Take this bookstore human. He knows that Crowley isn’t going to buy the book. Aziraphale is clearly the real threat—every inch of him screams book-lover. Nothing about Crowley even whispers anything of the sort. But Aziraphale is looking at the books with proper reverence, and Crowley is not. He’s not actually damaging them—he would never do that in front of Aziraphale—but he’s handling the bee book with a studied carelessness that he can see grating on the bookseller’s nerves. Crowley knows exactly how this will go. Any minute now, the man’s irritation is going to override his good sense, and he's going to drop his guard. He just needs a bit more pressure.

“Oh look, there's an updated section on varroa mites, whatever those are. I should make a note of this.” He slowly takes the corner of one page, as if about to fold it down, and the man snaps.

The bookseller—if such he can be called—turns his back on Aziraphale and rushes up to Crowley, snatching the book from his hands. Score one for the demon.

“Don’t damage the merchandise.”

“Or what?” Crowley almost purrs. “You’ll make me buy it?”

The man glares, and flips open the book to check the front page. A look of satisfaction flits across his face as he says, “No price on the inside cover, so it’s not for sale.”

“How can it not be for sale?” asks Crowley. “We are in a book shop, yes? And this is a book?”

“If there’s no price listed, it’s not for sale,” the man says.

Crowley heaves a theatrical sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to take up beekeeping at some later date. Did you find what you were looking for, angel?”

“I believe so, yes.” Aziraphale is holding a cloth volume, which he carries to the front desk. “The price on the inside reads fifty dollars,” he says.

The man scowls, but turns to the cash register. There’s a large tortoiseshell cat sleeping in front of it. “Can’t wake up the cat,” he says.

“We can wait,” says Aziraphale cheerfully.

“Shop’s closing in ten minutes.”

“At 11:52?”

“It’s my lunch break.”

Aziraphale doesn’t bother asking when he’ll be back.

Crowley considers the situation. Unlike humans, cats can’t easily be tempted—they ignore words, and they’re largely immune to demonic powers. They do tend to like catmint, so Crowley conjures up a fresh stalk of the plant and wiggles it back and forth, carefully keeping it out of the shopkeeper’s sight. The cat wakes up as she catches the scent, and her eyes start following the motion of the stalk. Crowley drops the catmint and the tortoiseshell jumps down after it. “Cash register’s clear,” Crowley says.

The man rings up the book, resentment radiating from every line of his body. “$61.43.”

“I thought it was fifty,” says Aziraphale.

“Sales tax.”

“Surely books aren’t taxed at over twenty percent, even in America.” At Aziraphale’s huffy tone, Crowley raises an eyebrow, surprised that the angel cares about the price. Aziraphale turns to him and says, “It’s the principle of the thing. Books are zero-rated under VAT.” The angel is impressively knowledgable about tax law for someone who can’t remember which of their sides invented it. (Neither, though they both claimed credit, and Aziraphale did ensure that books were exempt. Crowley managed to get biscuits taxed if--and only if-- they have added chocolate, something for which Aziraphale has only recently forgiven him.)

“What’s VAT?” The man has made no motions toward the register.

“Oh, never mind.”

As Aziraphale reaches into his pocket, the man says, “Cash only.”

“That’s no problem at all!” Aziraphale says cheerily, producing four crisp twenty dollar bills.

The bookseller sags just a bit, and rings up the purchase with a sigh of resignation. .

“Out of eighty, your change is 18.54.” He perks up a bit. “I can’t give you any change—till’s empty. Sure you still want the book?” 

“It’s perfectly fine, my dear fellow. You can keep the remainder.” Triumphantly, Aziraphale takes his book and exits the shop.

Outside, Crowley stops and asks, “What did you get?”

“I have no idea, I simply grabbed the first volume within reach. Let’s see…_Living by the Sword: Weapons, Warriors, and Material Culture in France and England, 1300-1600._ How fascinating! And look, there are color plates! What a delightful find.”

“Ugh, the fourteenth century. No thank you.” Something occurs to him. “Wait. You didn't even look at the title? Did you buy this book just to mess with the man? I always knew you were a bastard deep down.” He's rather impressed.

“Oh no, not at all, dearest. It was research. That gentleman had several techniques that had never occurred to me. I _must_ start instituting separate hours for the different sections of the shop. And not having sufficient change for the register. The cat is also an inspired strategy, though I’m not sure whether I could properly care for one…”

Crowley grins. “How about a snake instead?”

“Would a snake be easier to…oh! That’s very kind of you to offer, my love. Are you quite certain you’d be comfortable?”

He shrugs. “Sure, why not?” A chance to cause trouble and make Aziraphale happy at the same time would be worth any number of inconveniences. 

“What an excellent idea.” The angel gives him a slightly shy smile. “And it would keep you around the shop more, which I’ll admit I’ve grown rather fond of.”

There’s a thousand things Crowley could say to that, sarcastic or sincere, but—to his annoyance—the angel’s smile makes it hard to form words. So he kisses Aziraphale, right there in the middle of the sidewalk. It only lasts a second, because even miracles can’t keep New Yorkers from shouldering people out of the way, but it’s a nice second.

“Crowley!” The angel is blushing.

“Sorry, angel, did I embarrass you?” He gives a smug lazy grin. Then notices that Aziraphale looks slightly uncomfortable, and the grin vanishes. “Shit, _did_ I embarrass you? I’m sorry, angel, I—“

“No, it’s fine. Just…old habits. I worry sometimes that someone Upstairs might be watching.”

Crowley checks. “All clear, for what it’s worth.” He scowls. “Are you actually upset that your former bosses might see you with me?”

“No!” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’m not going to hide that I love you. I don’t think I could. And I think they’re already well aware of that.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“It’s just…sometimes I think I hear Gabriel or one of the others. It’s hard to get their voices out of my head sometimes, and they were always so critical, and dismissive. And then I worry. It’s not rational, it’s just…habit. I never was the best angel, you know.”

The words make Crowley angry, but trying to express that risks upsetting Aziraphale further. He’s going to have to approach this carefully.

“You,” he says “are an excellent angel. And don’t tell me I don’t know. I know what actual bad angels look like. I’ve seen a lot of them. Some of them Fell and some of them didn’t. But you are good. Irritatingly good. It’s really bloody annoying, actually. Do you know how hard it is to be in love with someone who insists on seeing the best in everyone? Wait, I’m getting off track.”

Crowley’s not good at sincerity. It keeps wanting to come out as sarcasm or complaining. He’ll always do whatever he can to keep Aziraphale safe and happy, whether it’s stain removal, Nazi-bombing, stopping time, or strategically annoying a bookseller. Words have always been harder. It's so easy with humans, to read their wants and weaknesses and know exactly the right thing to say. But old habits of secrecy are hard to banish, and Crowley spent six thousand years keeping one very large secret from everyone. Even Aziraphale. Especially Aziraphale. So now, even though the secret is very much out, it's hard to find the right words.

Fortunately, Aziraphale seems to understand, because he smiles and slips his arms around Crowley’s waist.

“Thank you, my dear. I love you too.”

Their subsequent kiss is broken when passers-by plow into them again. Crowley listens to the passive-aggressive muttering (and one rather aggressive “Get off the fucking sidewalk and get a room, assholes”) and realizes that he’s discovered a new well of untapped potential.

“Why did I spend all that time mucking about with telephone connections and mobile exchanges when I could have annoyed people just by kissing you in public?”

Aziraphale looks puzzled for a second, then smiles. “That would have been a very different sort of Arrangement.”

"Rather like the one we have now?"

The angel pulls him against the bookshop door, out of the rush of pedestrian traffic, for a longer kiss. "Oh no. What we have now is much better."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> If you're wondering why Aziraphale and Crowley are in New York, it's because this was originally part of my story [_Four Cups of Wine_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454977/chapters/46306765), about A and C making friends with a rabbi and her wife in Brooklyn. It's otherwise completely unrelated to this fic, but if you feel like what GO really needs is more Jewish lesbians, please do feel free to check it out.
> 
> Anyway, this one worked better as a standalone, so here it is. Hope you enjoyed!


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